


it's only natural

by dreamingbackwards



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dark, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingbackwards/pseuds/dreamingbackwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil had managed to tamp down the urges until Clint came into his life, and the desperate need to possess that Clint inspired in him had sent him spiraling- sent him to a bar, actually, where he picked up a handsome, stocky, strong man who was in pieces on Phil's living room floor by morning.</p><p>(Literal pieces. Bodies are easier to dispose of that way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's only natural

**Author's Note:**

> I think we can all agree that Phil Coulson would be the best serial killer ever, right? So this happened. It's not done, but it's been sitting in my drafts far too long for me to continue to tell myself it'll ever be finished. There's no real plot anyway, so it doesn't matter.
> 
> This is not happy-fun-serial-murder-adventures. The focus of Phil's 'habit' is Clint. This fic contains someone someone taking pleasure in murdering people and that same someone fantasizing about killing their lover.

"Hey there," Clint says, kissing Phil's ear as he peels off his shooting gloves. "What've you been up to?"

Phil smiles. "Oh, nothing much. Just paperwork," he lies. He picks the last of the blood out from under his nails under the table.

**

It's all about Clint. It always has been. Phil had managed to tamp down the urges until Clint came into his life, and the desperate need to possess that Clint inspired in him had sent him spiraling- sent him to a bar, actually, where he picked up a handsome, stocky, strong man who was in pieces on Phil's living room floor by morning.

(Literal pieces. Bodies are easier to dispose of that way.)

**

Clint likes to lean on Phil when they watch TV before bed. He slips an arm around Phil's shoulders and snuggle close while Phil, apparently absentmindedly, slides his hand up and down Clint's thigh.

It isn't absentminded, however; it's the complete opposite. It's Phil pretending to watch TV or pretending to catch up on paperwork as he feels the muscles under his fingers, lets his nerves listen to the music of restless twitches from Clint's fine-tuned instrument of a body. He sits and he touches and listens to Clint's breath, which is always even unless he's chuckling to himself, and he imagines it stopping- imagines shoving Clint to the floor in a rush and pulling off his shirt, sliding his hands along Clint's skin, Clint's throat. Tightening his fingers. Beautiful, beautiful Clint watching Phil slip from seductive in the most perfunctory of ways to alive, how he only ever is in this moment.

Feeling Clint struggle underneath him, writhing and scratching at Phil's fingers but never quite hard enough to make him stop. Watching his face, so well formed, so handsome, turn red. Watching the lust in his eyes burn brighter and brighter as it flares into panic.

But Phil knows someone would find out if he took Clint like he wants to, and Phil, contrary to the popular serial killer romanticization, does have self control. He has self control when it counts. When he needs it. But when he doesn't need it?

Well. Everyone has their release valves.

**

There's a pretty man laying in Phil's bed, asleep. He's blonde. He's muscular. He's also insecure enough to go home with the first man who pays him any attention, luckily for Phil.

Phil smiles and climbs back into bed. The man- Joe? Jerry? It doesn't really matter- shifts a little, and when Phil swings a leg over him to kneel over his back, the man turns to look at him. "Again so soon? I dunno if I'm-"

"Shh," Phil soothes, running his hands over the man's back. "No, I don't want to go again now."

Most of his guests find it strange, the contact. Sex is one thing, but apparently touching is something else entirely, which Phil finds ridiculous. Joe or Jerry doesn't seem to mind.

Phil slides his hands up. The skin is warm and smooth under his palms, the muscles beneath strong and beautiful. So well made. He obviously takes care of himself.

Every inch closer Phil gets to the man's throat makes his heart pound harder. This is his favorite part. Cheating on Clint? That rubs him the wrong way, but time and experimentation has proven it to be necessary. Now, however, any trepidation Phil might have felt is erased by the rush of power. Joe or Jerry or maybe George has no idea what's about to happen, and he's the perfect prey because of it.

His hands finally reach the stranger's throat. He can feel the steady, faint flutter of a relaxed pulse, and time seems to slow down as he tightens his hands. The pulse becomes a steady beat beneath his fingertips, then ramps up to a frantic pound as Phil squeezes, hard, leans the full weight of his body to press the man's face into the pillow. This moment is what he lives for. Right now, he owns this man, he can give him back his breath or keep it for himself, he can reach for the blade in the bedstand and slit the throat Phil is leaving soft purple marks on. (He won't. It's been a stressful week, and it's much more satisfying to kill by hand.)

Being caught by surprise means it's over fast. Phil revels in the moment the body beneath him goes still, clenches his hands impossibly tighter. He isn't gone yet, just passed out, and Phil knows that keeping his grip until there's no trace of a breath or a twitch or a heartbeat is the best way to make sure no one wakes up halfway through the cleanup process.

The still weight of someone beside him in bed always helps him sleep. 

**

He doesn't dream often, but when he does, he dreams of Clint. 

He dreams of Clint, golden, muscular Clint, bound and helpless, with duct tape over that smart mouth of his. He dreams of Clint's wrist cuffed to the table, his thighs, his shoulders, his ankles. He dreams of cleanliness, neatness, orderliness. He dreams of Clint. 

And when he dreams of Clint, he can feel the cold wooden handle of an old, worn knife heavy in his hand. He can trace the shining blade over Clint's skin- gently, gently- to tease until Clint wakes up. He slides the blade feather-light over Clint's warm skin and watches the hairs stand up in its wake. Perfect, beautiful Clint, finally where he should be. 

In the dream, Clint wakes up, blinks his bleary eyes in that endearing way he does after an unexpected nap, and Phil smiles. He keeps the knife in one hand and shows it to Clint. He watches Clint's eyes widen, watches him pick his head up and look down his body, watches him tense and squirm and try to break the sturdy leather binding him down, watches his breath turn to panting when he can't. Poor, poor Clint. He doesn't stand a chance.

Really, making him suffer any more would be inhumane, so Phil wets the rag again and shushes Clint, cooing nonsense about how everything will be fine as he presses it over Clint's face. Clint doesn't even try to bite his hand or turn his head: he's very well trained. He just pants until his breathing slows back down, until his muscles calm and his breath is steady. 

Even in sleep, Clint is good to him- the chloroform makes some people twitch, but not Clint. He lays sweetly still, simply waiting for Phil to do what he wishes. What a good husband. Phil pulls Clint's ring from the nightstand and slips it on the proper finger before bending down to kiss it.


End file.
